DOWN TO IT
His back is to me as he strips off his clothes in the closet, and I strain my neck to watch as he sheds the remains of 9-to-5 Edward. Tie and shirt and tee and shoes and socks and pants and boxers are all dispatched before he heads into the bathroom without a backwards glance for me. Where am I gonna go? He’s not too worried. He closes the door but for a tiny crack, and I know that’s to ease my mind.
With Edward out of the room, I test my bonds. He literally has me splayed open like a butterflied chicken, and there is no slack in the ties. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Relax, Bella. Breathe. You’ve been waiting for this your whole life, and you could not possibly be in more capable hands. Oh, damn, I wish I could stop thinking about his hands.
As if fastening me spread-eagle wouldn’t have been enough to set me on fire, Edward has also made sure I’m extra frustrated by starting me on edge this morning, denying me all day, and using my body as his own personal sushi serving set. His bathroom door opens and my heart rate picks up. The enormity of the moment raises goose bumps across my skin.
Apparently, the Dark Prince knows how to buy menswear. Or maybe he took his savvy sidekick with him. Either way, he looks ridiculously hot in a pair of slim fit khaki cargo pants hanging just below his hip bones. I can’t see much from my disadvantaged angle, but from here, it looks like he’s filled those deep side pockets with goodies that he plans to use on me. And hello, crumpled up white cotton button-down shirt, rolled to the middle of his forearms and hanging completely open.
But really, Edward could wear those clothes just as well. What tips him into Dark Prince territory is the commanding attitude. He’s deliberate in every movement and once he turns those sultry bedroom eyes to my body, they never leave. The very beginnings of a smile play at the corners of his lips, but he is all business.
Stalking toward the bed, he places his hand along one calf. “You didn’t get into any mischief while I was gone, did you?”
“No, Sir,” I answer, noticing it’s become more difficult for me to speak. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s fully clothed that suddenly makes me feel barer than bare.
He runs his hand over the cuff and tie and continues to my toes. Concern creases his forehead. “Your toes are cold and you’re trembling.” His other hand quickly joins the first, rolling my ankle and evaluating the restraint. “It doesn’t seem too tight,” he puzzles.
“No, Sir. I just get shivery when I’m…nervous.”
“You’re excited,” he states, the smile blooming into full force now. “Because you are spread wide open and pinned down and I can do anything…” (a finger slides up my leg) “I…want…” (and inside my thigh) “to…you” (and circles around my pussy).
He chuckles at the full blown quiver that shakes my body as his words sink in. He moves to the headboard to evaluate my hands. He checks my left hand first, and then the right, sliding his fingers between mine and pinning them, too, to the bed. Because clearly, I’m not ensnared enough.
He bends his face over mine and captures my lips under his. His kiss comes with a low moan and the slightest pinch of teeth against my lower lip. Could it be that the Dark Prince is having a wee bit of trouble containing himself?
His lips pull away, revealing eyes that sear into mine. “Isabella,” he starts, his voice breaking on the final syllables. He clears his throat and continues, “I want to thank you for giving me the gift of your submission.”
His earnestness is so fucking sexy right now. I’m melting into the comforter. Seriously, all that will be left of me is a velvet collar lying in a pool of liquefied girl.
Jesus, get on with it. You can stare into her eyes later. The girl is so fucking ready she’s going to auto-release without a single touch if you don’t get busy!
Jesus, get on with it. You can stare into her eyes later. The girl is so fucking ready she’s going to auto-release without a single touch if you don’t get busy!
I climb onto the bed and straddle my knees on either side of her waist. From my left pocket, I pull her favorite blue feather, and her eyes bug out. I fluff the feather across her breasts and watch her nipples pucker. That was fun…let’s do that again! She whimpers on the second pass, and by the third, her tits are doing everything they can—which is not much at all—to escape the path of the feathery tickles. Giving her nipples a temporary respite, I run the feather along her neck line and up the length of each arm with the softest stroke possible. She knows it’s coming, and her eyes beg me not to. But what they really mean is, Please, please, please, PLEASE DO!
The feather travels torturously down the contour of her elbow, sliding along her firm triceps, and landing in the hollow under her arm. She squeals and squeezes her eyes shut and blows out a huge breath when I finally stop. I give her half a second to recover before doing the same thing on the other side. Her hips, the only place on her whole body free to move, lift right off the bed. I nip that right in the bud by sitting down on her stomach. Now, when the feather is reapplied, she becomes more desperate and begins begging. “Please, Sir, please, I can’t take it, please, please, please!”
I lift the feather. “Do you remember your safe word, Isabella?”
And I take up again on the other side, mercilessly this time, as she bursts into giggles at the same time as she’s begging me to stop. Tears roll down the sides of her face, but I don’t hear anything that sounds like “Boggle” so I go on several seconds more before quitting. I have to admit, I am horny as fuck right now administering this tickle torture on her helpless body.
I roll my hips against her stomach. “Can you feel what you’re doing to me, princess? How hard it makes me to be able to tease you like this and know you can’t move an inch?”
“Yes, Sir,” she answers, eyes zoning in on my cock. The outline is clear under my cargoes, especially since I’m not wearing underneath.
I pop off her lap as she catches her breath, and I situate myself on my knees in between her legs. And we have officially reached my favorite part of the program. I know she’s not going to last long, so I add in a little challenge.
“You are forbidden to come from the touch of the feather tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she says a bit anxiously.
Setting the feather sideways, I drag the length of it down her stomach, abdomen, and wide-spread lower lips. She hisses in response. I repeat the motion, lingering one second longer at the end, delighting in the way her pussy reaches almost imperceptibly to squeeze out that last drop of contact with the feather at the end.
“Careful, princess,” I warn. “Control that pussy.”
Once more, I draw the feather down her front and observe her struggle at the end. Her eyes roll back in her head and she holds her breath, but she hangs on. I challenge her twice more, drawing a glistening film of moisture at her entrance.
“Good girl,” I praise.
I wave the feather back under both armpits and nipples until she’s giggling and desperate, and then I give her pussy another chance. This time, I hold the feather relatively still over her pussy, allowing her more consistent contact. I recognize the signs of pressure building, and I pull back my hand and let her recover.
“You’ve been waiting a long time, princess. Would you feel better with a release right now?”
“Yes, Sir,” she says, much relieved.
“So would I,” I answer. I set the feather between her legs and walk my knees over her hips and up into the grooves of her armpits. Unbuttoning and unzipping, I hastily pull out my cock and tap her chin with the tip. “Open Sesame,” I chuckle, and her face registers surprise and betrayal but she opens just the same.
I express my pleasure loudly, holding her head immobile between my palms. I bark out orders, “Lick the tip…suck it in…act like you like it…better add a little enthusiasm…how about at least a fake moan?”
I watch her eyes as she fights off her resentful feelings and works to please me. She’s definitely not feeling warm and fuzzy toward me, and frankly, that’s part of the joy of this moment. Where’s the fun in dominating someone if you can’t take what you want, whenever you want it?
“Get ready, princess…unh…unh….mmmm…ahhhh…ahhhhhhhhh!” Her cheeks hollow with the effort of swallowing and then she begins the process of licking me clean. “That’s a girl. You’re learning just how I like it.”
Sure, I rub it in a bit. This is all about me, princess. We’ll get to you if and when I feel like it. I’ve given her no guarantees that she’s in for a happy ending tonight. And I’m pretty sure she’s keeping score on the day.
Yeah, that’s two for the master and none for the sub, but who’s counting? And I am frankly starting to wonder if I’m going to get my turn at all tonight. So far, all he’s done is tease the hell out of me and take his own pleasure, and I have to admit, I’m feeling a wee bit rebellious at the moment. Like if you don’t take that smug cock out of my face right now, I might just—
“You were right, princess. I feel much better now. How about you?” he asks with a self-satisfied tone that makes me want to chomp down on the tip he’s just tucking back into his pants. He zips up but doesn’t even bother to button, the cocky ass.
“Yes, Sir,” I answer, when I realize he’s actually waiting for me to respond. Oh shit, I better work on my attitude before I say or do something to get myself into hot water.
“Yes, Sir?” he repeats, surprised. “You’re all good then? So you’re not interested in how to win your orgasm?”
“Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir. I mean, yes, I’m interested.”
He chuckles and cups my cheek gently in his hand. “Damn, you are so cute when you’re muddled.”
He pushes himself to his feet by the side of the bed and takes hold of the feather once again. He rubs it delicately around my nipples. “You already know about this little toy. And you already know it’s not going to get you off tonight.” With that, he trails it down a straight line to my pussy and teases me until I’m breathing hard again, as if he never stopped.
“What you should be asking yourself, then, is… ‘What does he have in the other pocket?’ Would you like to know?”
“In the other pocket…voila!”
My eyes widen and the next breath sticks in my throat as he brandishes a black riding crop with a leather-wrapped handle and a small square tip. “Ever touch one of these before?”
“No, Sir.” And you know I’m scared.
“Here. Feel this,” he says, softly brushing the tip of the crop along my stomach. “See? Nothing to fear. You’re not in trouble. This is not a punishment. The crop is your implement of pleasure for the evening…that is, until I use my own implement on you,” he adds, making goofy eyes that would probably make me crack up if I weren’t about to be cropped. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Exactly. So tonight, the feather…” which he brushes against my clit tantalizingly, tickling and arousing me, “equals frustration.”
Yes, I’ve already solved that equation, Professor Teasalot.
“And the crop…”—I clench everything as he prepares to drop the tip against my pussy—“…equals pleasure.”
Yeah, right—holy hell! He slaps the end down just above where the feather’s just been, and it delivers a sensual , cool, supple sting of much-needed friction. “Feel good?”
He smiles and strikes me again. “Ahhhh,” I moan, surprised at the sensation.
“So you like it now?”
“Should we let your nipples have a turn?”
“Whatever you think, Sir,” I answer, going with the safe bet.
“I definitely think we should,” he answers, tapping my nipples alternately with the crop. And damn, it does feel really, really excellent.
And then I feel the goddamn feather again, down below, tempting me, drawing me, tickling me and bringing me to the edge. “Should I move the feather, Isabella?”
“Yes, sir, please move the feather.” Before I fucking explode!
“Good idea,” he says, moving the feather to my armpit while he’s still thwacking at my breasts with the crop. My brain cannot keep up with what feels good and what tickles and what I’m allowed to enjoy and what I better not.
He looks like the ghoulish conductor of some kinky orchestra, feather in one hand and crop in the other, with the responding symphony coming entirely from my mouth. My nipples lean toward their pleasure while my armpits shy away from the torture he’s heaping upon me, and then he switches, without warning. The nipples are assaulted by the feather, and the crop takes a turn biting it way down the inside of my arms. I close my eyes and try to sort it all out, but it’s too much, and I’m keening and begging, but for what? I have no idea.
And then everything stops.
I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I think your pussy’s jealous of all the attention.” And with that, I leave her side and plant myself at the foot of the bed.
“Here I am,” I greet her open thighs, brushing the feather up one side and flicking the crop against the other. She can only move about a half an inch in any direction, and I am having the best time enjoying her little dance from the best seat in the house.
She’s just about at the end of her rope now. I scrub the feather against her clit and she squeals in pleasure she knows she’s not allowed to take, lest it lead her down that path she can’t halt. Replacing the feather with the crop, I tap and drag the square through her slippery folds, drawing a long, breathy sigh of relief and pleasure. But then there’s the feather again….and the crop. Feather…crop. I establish a predictable rhythm, laying the foundation. And then I stop once more. Her body sinks back to a state of bearable tension, and Isabella whimpers in frustration.
“Easy, sweetheart, we’re almost there,” I promise. I place one hand on her thigh and rub my thumb soothingly. She’s jumpy at first, but she relaxes into my touch. “You’re doing great.”
When I sense that she’s calmed, I give her the instructions. “Did you catch that rhythm?”
“Good. You have permission to come whenever the crop is touching you. I won’t vary the pattern, I promise. Just one thing, Isabella…”
“Yes, Sir?” a worried little voice pipes in.
“As we go along here, both the feather and the crop are going to become more…insistent. So you best not wait too long.”
I know I’ve been more sadistic than usual tonight, but this part right here, this isn’t me being a jerk or a sadist. The crop is an instrument she’s dreaded, and I happen to know it is a fear I can easily help her overcome within her restraints. No matter how long she takes to reach her peak, I will not hurt her, and I trust she knows that. The pressure of the threat is simply to help her along and increase the tension. One look at her first response to the feather tells me I’ve hit my mark. The wispy soft tendrils draw her out and she’s practically shaking with need. The crop strikes repeatedly but she doesn’t come. I give her two seconds before I start the feather again. Hold on, Isabella…
Time for the crop. I strike. “Ahhhh!” And drag. “Mmmm.” Again. And again. And again.
Enter the feather. Circular strokes of air and lightness that tease and tickle and tempt. Her moans become more insistent. She’s close.
Thwack! The crop grows firmer. The contrast is making her absolutely crazy. Her head swivels left and right atop her neck; it’s the only part of her that’s free to move. “Please, please, please!” she murmurs, but she knows she already has my permission. Harder, I strike her with the crop. Come on, Isabella! Only two more chances. Smack!…and drag.
“Nnn, nnnn, nnnnnnnn,” she cries, and I know I’ve got her now.
WHACK! The final blow from the crop tips her over the precipice, and I hold the tiny leather square on her clit and she welcomes the pressure. “Ayeee!” she practically screams.
“Good girl,” I praise her. “Come on; give it all to me, Isabella.”
I drop the crop at her side and leave her final spasms to the subtly circulating air in the room.
Thank God—or the Dark Prince—I’ve held it through the onslaught of the wicked blue feather to enjoy relief from the leather crop. Wow, that is messed up. Just last Friday, that same feather was my very favorite inanimate object, and today, Edward’s turned it into feather non grata. And the dreaded crop? Mmmm. Let’s just say the Kentucky Derby will hold new interest for me this year.
Be careful what you wish for, silly girl, reason answers back. Do you not think the magician in the cargo pants has the power to turn the crop against you in one fell swoop?
I suppose that’s his point. It’s all about what he decides; what he wants for me to experience. Lesson learned, my capable court magician, one who turns rods into serpents. Though right now, it looks more like his serpent has turned back into a mighty stiff rod. And it seems to be headed my way.
I focus my eyes just in time to see him peel those pants down his legs and hop back up between my legs, guns a-blazing. He presses his lips to my overworked clit and leaves a soft, gentle kiss. “Are you sore?” he asks.
“A little, Sir.”
He sits back on his heels and seems to be puzzling something out. Next thing I feel is his hands at my ankle, releasing the Velcro cuff. Soon, the other ankle is free as well. My feet drift toward each other, two long lost friends seeking each other’s company. His hands clamp down over my ankles. “I didn’t say you could close those,” he says menacingly. Oh, shit with a capital SH!
“Sorry, Sir,” I choke out. Thankfully, he seems more interested in whatever he was doing than in meting out consequences for my unwitting transgression. My hands are soon unlocked as well, and now I know better than to assume I’m free to move.
“Flip over onto your stomach,” he commands. I catch the crop with my peripheral vision and take a deep breath. Now what? I wonder. My joints are a little sore and I have a little trouble managing the belly flop, but finally I do get myself rolled over. Just in case, I splay my arms and legs wide. He runs his hand over my ass and I hold my breath, expecting him to strike me.
“Up on your knees,” he coaxes, slipping his hand to my back.
Surprisingly, he recuffs my hands but this time, he brings them together over my head and pulls the ties straight forward around the middle rung of the headboard and ties me off.
“Down onto your elbows,” he commands. He gently angles my head so that my cheek is lying against the comforter.
My ankles are refastened as well, spread wide, but not quite as wide as before. The result is the same; I cannot move an inch. The bed dips near my feet as he climbs back up and positions himself between my legs. His thumbs work their way into my crevice, and I suck in a nervous breath. He won’t, I promise myself. He knows I don’t want that.
Sure enough, he bypasses the top opening and spreads me open in the familiar place. And one that is most welcoming. I feel the lubricated tip of the condom press against me, and his hands slide to my ass once he’s inside.
“I need to know if I’m hurting you, Isabella.”
“You’re not, Sir. Feels…ungghh…good.”
“Keep me posted,” he says, pulling my hips back and sliding all the way in with a low hiss. “God, Isabella, you made me crazy tonight struggling in your bonds.”
He presses one hand against my lower back and pulls my hips up higher, making for a deeper penetration. Slap…slap…slap…he thrusts into me, forcing my front half down and away. The effect is so odd; it feels almost as if the spot where we’re connected is disembodied. As if he’s saying, ‘I don’t need the rest of you right now. Just this one part.’
“Come if you can, Isabella,” he says, still pounding away. “I’m not going to rub you where you’re sore.”
He’s hitting a spot deep inside of me, over and over again. His hands move to my ass cheeks, probably a subconscious motion on his part, and he squeezes me roughly as he gets close to his release. I feel the tension mounting inside, building deliciously.
“Feels so good, feels…so…good!” I bark out as he pounds away. Splat! His open palm spanks my ass. Whack! Again, he hits me. A low guttural moan begins deep in my belly, as he continues to pound me from the inside out.
“Do you like being tied up for me, Isabella?”
“You enjoy being spread open…” Slap! “so I can do whatever I want to your sweet pussy?” Thwack!
“Well, this…” (pound pound) “…is…what” (pound pound) “…I…want” (pound pound) “…to…do…to…your…sweet…pussy!”
With a long, low, growl, he spasms and explodes.